


Somnophilia (While You Were Sleeping)

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Consensual, Fingering, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock did it to John that way only once. Once, however, was more than enough. Because when you've got a brain like Sherlock Holmes, you can take once and you can take it apart...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [AtlinMerrick: Somnophilia - Russian translation: Сомнофилия (Пока Ты Спал)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127116) by [SilverRaindemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRaindemon/pseuds/SilverRaindemon)



> This story [also in Russian](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4127116/chapters/9303631)! Thank you Silverraindemon.

He did it to John that way only once. Once, however, was more than enough.

Because when you've got a brain like Sherlock Holmes, you can take once and you can _take it apart,_ remembering every breathless moment, every groan, each sweet push. You may want more, you may some day _get_ more, but what you have right now? It's enough.

Sherlock's pretty sure it was the coffee and exhaustion that did it—a traditionally tricky combination for the biology of a Holmes-Watson. John and Sherlock have both been known to do odd things when strung out on caffeine and fatigue and this is just one in an extended series of proofs, should proofs you require.

"Fl lk wy ffy stn."

For a moment Sherlock, propped against the flat's unopened door, thought he'd gone half deaf. Then he realised John was trying to talk though he was face-planted against Sherlock's coat-clad back.

The good detective waited for clarification, but after a moment realised his husband was possibly asleep. Against his back. Standing up.

Again.

Well, that was it. This case had already taken it out of both of them but fortunately they were done. Done mainlining espresso, done eating deep-fried crickets (don't ask), done climbing the rigging of the London Eye (ask later). Done, done, damn well _done._

With a deep sigh, and feeling the entire weight of the world—and a surprisingly dense small man—on his weary shoulders, Sherlock unlocked their front door. He then opened it with care so that neither he nor the sturdy man at his back fell face-first onto the hardwoods. Sherlock then—using the support of the door handle, the door, the wall, a chair, another chair, the wall, and then a lamp—carefully got himself and his _still sleeping husband_ to the sofa.

The moment they were both stretched out long in that narrow space John woke right the hell on up. "I feel like I weigh fifty fucking stone. So heavy. And horny. That's odd. I think I'm delicious." John yawned hugely. "I said delirious didn't I? Just now? What?"

John fell asleep again. Sherlock was too delicious—delirious, _delirious_ —with fatigue to smile much less laugh so he passed out, too.

He woke up not quite six hours later kind of climbing the sofa. No, that's not right. It was more a horizontal shimmy. No. It was like a _slide,_ a kind of slither. Hell, that's not it either.

Okay, here's the thing: There's not much room on that sofa for two men. So to sleep tight, Sherlock had smooshed his back right on up against John's front. Which meant that, hours later, the quite respectable erection in John's trousers was mashed against Sherlock's back.

It did not belong there.

So, apparently, as he slept, Sherlock's entire long body crept horizontally along the sofa, trying to align his cock-seeking arse with John's nice, arse-seeking cock.

When Sherlock eventually bumped his head against the sofa arm he woke up, took note of the situation, sighed once, and fell asleep again.

However, relevant portions of his body were now conveniently aligned with relevant portions of John's body.

This would become important in about another four hours.

But first John had to continue having three really good dreams, and they were right corkers. Ribald and messy, action-packed and loud, one even had a damn brass band.

Sherlock's dreams were mellower things, they usually are. There was a breeze in the consulting detective's dream. For a long time that was it. Just a breeze. Soft and warm and from the west. Eventually a horizon appeared and on it, over time, there appeared a cloud. Just a cloud. Soft and fluffy and scudding north.

Eventually both men stopped dreaming and fell into deep delta oblivion. While they snoozed, their spent reserves recovered, for these are resilient men. And while they slept their brains filed away useful facts (bugs do not taste even remotely as good as, say, dirt), while their bodies repaired small injuries (the bruise on John's bum from where Sherlock accidentally kicked him as they dove for stolen jewels sinking into murky Thames darkness); the three bite-caused welts on Sherlock's forearm because, while the crickets might have been deep fried, the centipedes were quite lively (ask later if your constitution's strong).

Be that as it may, Sherlock found himself fighting fit about ten hours into their epic Sleep the Sleep of the Dead and so he woke first. Being as they'd actually crawled onto the sofa at six o'clock on an autumn evening that meant it was still quite dark outside. Sherlock yawned hugely and ssssttttreeeetccched his long body till his muscles creaked, his back arched and…right then John was pulled from the depths of delta sleep and back into REM dreaming by the plush press of consulting arse.

And an erection that had been waxing and waning and waxing again for ten long hours finally found itself something to do. And that something was _push._

"Hello."

He actually said it, there in four a.m. dark, this consulting pedant who insists that he does not waste words. He whispered hello because he was so surprised by that vehement push that he 1) nearly fell off the sofa, and 2) couldn't think of a single sensible thing to say.

And then he did. "John, are you awake?"

John Watson-Holmes' reply was another push. Then a third, and then a series of the things, until there was a simple, steady rhythm.

Sherlock looked heavenward but it wasn't god he sought, it was guidance in the form of his own past. A past in which [he's slept through an entire act of fellating John](http://archiveofourown.org/works/549747). A past in which [John has slept-nursed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/458517/chapters/791034) on Sherlock's nipples until the good detective came like a geyser. A past in which [John actively guided Sherlock's dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/832246) until they both fired off—one wide awake, and one sweet dreaming.

Right. So. There was a precedent or two for what Sherlock was now thinking of doing and a man can't spend as much time in court as an expert witness as Sherlock has without becoming fond of the rock solid justification offered by precedents.

Thus assured that his plan was not in any John-Sherlock way technically wrong, Sherlock unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and carefully pushed them and his pants down to his thighs.

And thus began the tricky portion of this particular programme.

How to get a rigid but bendy cock into a tight arse without the active participation of the man with the fine, fine cock.

The answer, as it turns out, is really rather straight forward, especially if you're not shy, and Sherlock Holmes-Watson bid adieu to that particular vice about two minutes after he and John started having sex in one of Selfridges' Christmas display windows (you can ask later, but John's going to lie).

What Sherlock did was essentially take double-handed hold of his extensive back end and made what was on offer within more easily accessible. Which is to say he spread his arse cheeks as far apart as possible.

While this was a smashing idea, really top drawer, it did not exactly have the desired effect, being as the completely-not-conscious member of this little dalliance was still fully dressed.

Sherlock frowned, amazed this relevant fact had escaped him.

Well then, right to work.

Sherlock began the slow twist of a man 1) trying not to wake his husband 2) attempting to move while bound at the thighs with tight trousers and pants, and 3) striving to turn in a space so narrow that—

The sound Sherlock made as he fell on the floor was not as loud tonight as it would have been three weeks ago. That's because John had bought a very nice rug and put it in front of the sofa. The inspiration had been the spectacular bruises acquired from a twenty minute rogering Sherlock gave him on the sitting room floor earlier in the month.

Still, despite the new rug, a nearly-thirteen stone man is a solid thing and Mrs. Hudson woke right the hell on up for a good couple seconds after the floor-shaking thump. However, being as it wasn't followed with shouts of a sexual or pained nature, she fell immediately back to sleep.

Sherlock lay on the floor for a good thirty seconds. There were several reasons for this. 1) If his tumble had roused John, the silence and soothing dark would quite likely lull him back to sleep, 2) the new rug was surprisingly comfortable, 3) Sherlock was still tired, frankly, and despite the location and his bare arse mooning the ceiling, he briefly contemplated napping.

Two things cleared his mind of this folly. The room was chilly and his bum is sensitive to the cold (actually, his bum is sensitive, full stop), and John moaned.

Well then. Moving slowly, quietly, Sherlock lifted his head and peered over the edge of the sofa. John Hamish Watson-Holmes continued to sleep the sleep of the good and the just.

Well then. Moving slowly, quietly, Sherlock proceeded to sit up, pausing with each squeak of the hardwoods, and once to bite back profanities when his open zipper ate three genital hairs.

When he was at last mostly upright, Sherlock stared at John's face while his hands reached for his husband's belt, button, and zipper.

John woke up wide-eyed just about the time Sherlock stabbed himself with the belt buckle's prong.

"Fst gone est oh vr butt," said the good doctor, pushing Sherlock's hands out of the way so he could shove his pants and trousers _off,_ tug a blanket back of the sofa _on,_ and again fall asleep instantly.

Sherlock didn't even try and figure out what John said, he simply kind of rolled himself up and onto the sofa, his back to John's front once more, as if absolutely nothing had happened.

And Sherlock again took slightly-breathless, thoroughly-firm hold of his arse, spread the cheeks of that fine thing, and waited to see what would happen next.

_To be continued…_

_I revisit this sleepy-dreamy-humpy-bumpy universe as often as I do because it's a fuck-awesome universe. This sort of sex is now so much a part of my head canon for John and Sherlock that I pretty much see no end in sight. (P.S. This is dedicated to Livia Carica, who months and months ago asked for a wee somnophilia fic. Apparently I couldn't stop at the 1,000 words I originally planned.)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more falling and a feed-back loop...

What happened next on that narrow sofa, in that pre-dawn dark, was a lot of nothing on John's part and a lot of, uh, spreading on Sherlock's.

Look, let's be frank. It feels good. There. Doing that. Try it. Take hold of your own back end and open what's generally not…open. Press that against just about anything. The duvet, a passing cock, a stiff breeze. Your tender, often hidden parts tucked away between the pulchritude? They're going to enjoy the sensations. And though Sherlock loves to think himself far above common ken he's not in most ways. As his repeated manhandling of himself can attest.

So, even though John wasn't yet on board with the anal-sex-as-therapeutic-aid-to-case-recovery, Sherlock continued to, well, open himself up…and let go…open…let go. It really was rather addictive.

And arousing, if the rigidity of Sherlock's cock was anything to go by, and as far as things to go by go, it was.

It was also fascinating. Taking a boy-howdy plunge into a fine sexual feedback loop, Sherlock massaged his rump and, with the complicit, gauzy aid of curtains that let in just enough light, he watched precome pearl at the tip of his prick, which caused him to lick his lips, which caused him to open his mouth, which caused him to curl-bend-reach down toward his—

—the sound Sherlock made as he fell off the couch this time was actually fairly small. Between sofa's edge and rug he tightened every muscle which had the interesting effect of making him _lighter._ So he essentially met the floor on finger- and toe-tips and did not even wake Mrs. Hudson.

He did get a marvelous rug burn on his leaking cock though, something he'd only learn in the light of day after John bit his—but we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Mercifully released from his little loop of self-gratification, Sherlock lay face down on the surprisingly comfortable rug and thought.

The lube.

It was…

Well, they'd actually had a bit of trouble with that lately. So busy were they running from one end of London to the other that 1) neither had the energy to kiss or cuddle much less fuck when they got home, which was fine because 2) neither could remember where the last bottle of lube had got to, which was fine because 3) they hadn't shopped for tea or bread in well over a week, either, and the less said about the toilet tissue situation the better.

But now all the cases had concluded at once and there was grave, grave need for something extremely slickery. Something that reduced the friction coefficient to practically nil so John's still-arse-seeking cock could engage deeply and fully with Sherlock's cock-seeking arse.

Sherlock peeked over the side of the sofa.

 _Think,_ he thought, a thought he rarely has because he's _always_ thinking, except, apparently, when he's 1) still kind of exhausted 2) horny 3) suddenly enthralled by the goings-on on the sofa.

Because John had apparently just reentered his previous dream, and had gone right from still and quiet to thrusting languidly and moan-talking softly.

With a deep, shaky breath and a moan of his own Sherlock _thought._ Because many things can pinch-hit for lubricant.

Oils—either vegetable or mineral—work well and they are the logical substitute in times of sharp need.

Butter is a less reasoned surrogate and John's certain its animal properties make it unsanitary, but the two (five) times they've used it both were vocal about their enjoyment of its taste when mixed with—never mind.

Hair conditioner (Sherlock's hair is a festival of tangles without it) is not exactly sensible but it is functional and when in the shower once they pressed it into service and while it worked well the itch later (John's pretty sure it had something to do with the minty additives) was _in the end_ not worth it.

None of that actually mattered, because along with a lack of lube, their failure to keep up with the household's domestic needs had rendered 221B bereft of butter, oil, hair conditioner as well as beans, coffee, bread, milk, and—

_NO!_

Just as John started to roll onto his belly Sherlock was there, right there pressing, breathing, mouth full of wanting, thrusting, hard, hard cock…and _blanket._

At the sudden pleasant pressure a still-sleeping John sighed happily and humped away… _and (thank god) remained on his side._

Sherlock had two urgent thoughts as John humped his face: 1) the blanket tasted awful 2) if he did not get it out of his mouth he would choke to death and that would be upsetting.

With care, as if pouring a bucket of hydrochloric acid into a 25mm test tube while sitting astride a madly thrusting husband, Sherlock substituted his big, broad hand for his big, big mouth.

John Watson slept on.

Fine, there was really only one sensible lubricant for this and Sherlock had lots of it right on him.

Delicately, as if setting fire to one gram of a heat-reactive chemical instead of the whole kilo—which is really much harder than John might think if he'd just _think_ about—never mind, _never mind,_ they'd finish that argument later. In the meantime Sherlock delicately performed the tricky maneuver of keeping John's arse-seeking cock stimulated while ducking his head beneath the troublesome, foul-tasting blanket, lining himself up in the dark—

—a cock in the eye doesn't hurt so much as _surprise,_ but it's a useful sort of surprise because it helps a man shift down, wiggle over, get a firm but gentle grip, and then open his mouth and latch on, taking his husband in so deep that cock head jams up against the back of a quite magnificent throat. The body takes over then and does what it will always do when stimulated in such a way.

It generates a whole short tonne of _spit._

Sherlock groaned softly. The feel of the saliva flooding his mouth was, for all intents and purposes, foreplay. It was his body making copious amounts of one of nature's finest, freest lubricants. It was his body and the universe being complicit in what was going to happen next, it was—

Sherlock stopped humping the side of the sofa. It would not do to ejaculate over the couch cushions. That wasn't actually very likely, but it's a wonder what the mind can help the body accomplish and as anyone who's had a wet dream will tell you the mind can achieve quite a bit without the aid of hands, arse, or—

Sherlock stopped humping the side of the sofa again and focused.

And what he focused on was John's cock getting really hard really fast. _Shit._

If John came right now Sherlock was pretty sure he'd cry. Maybe not really, no, but metaphorically, or euphemistically, or whatever the hell it was, he had no clue how to make analogies or similes, all he knew was that it would not do for John Watson to get off at this exact moment.

To be sure, when the good doctor is conscious during sex—which is most of the time—he always does his best to be the best lover there is and 1) since he pretty much _is_ this isn't hard and 2) since Sherlock's never _had_ another lover it's easier still.

But a sleeping John has no such control over his body. A sleeping John, when properly stimulated, will thrust, hump, bump, and grind against anything, everything, or nothing, coming with ease and full-throated pleasure.

So, in response to hips that were growing frisky and a dick that was getting as hard as dicks do just before they fire away, Sherlock did the most natural thing in the world.

He bit John's cock.

_To be continued…_

_How does a wee, tiny, little, single-chapter somnophilia story turn into a (so far) nearly thirty-five hundred word ode to falling off the sofa? I don't know but I've hurt myself_ laughing at my own jokes. _Insanity: It's free and fun! More next week._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes knows how to bite a dick...

Sherlock Holmes knows how to bite a dick.

It wasn't a skill learned overnight, mind you, such exquisite expertise does not come free.

No, Sherlock Holmes had to practice, for the tensile strength of penile tissue is not something a man just _knows._ No, he must devote himself to study, he must select tools and take measurements, he must be consistent and persistent and eager and even so he may still, at first, get things wrong—"Ouch god damn it you mother-fucking fuck!" "Sorry John."—but a true scientist perseveres.

With patience, fortitude, copious notes, and a plaster (even though John didn't technically _need_ it) a man will eventually learn exactly how, where, and when to bite a cock to maximum effect.

Or minimum effect, in this case.

Which is to say that Sherlock, by the careful, delicate, conscientious application of teeth, prevented John from coming down his throat.

Because good doctor Watson was ready to fire. You know John: When he's made up his mind to shoot he shoots and devil take the hindmost.

However, here is something only Sherlock knows: The bite force quotient (BFQ if you prefer) required to sexually arouse John Watson is about eleven. The BFQ that'll further arouse a sexually aroused John is about ten. The BFQ necessary to stop John's cock from discharging its payload—and Sherlock's making an educated guess here but he feels pretty sanguine about it—seems to be about twelve point five give or take a half point.

So Sherlock _bit_ a bit and the moment he felt John's hardness soften just that tiny touch he stilled, held his breath, and he pretended he wasn't there.

Because Sherlock was sure that any movement on his part, a shift beneath the blanket, another thrust of his hips against the side of the sofa (he really had to stop that), would quite probably wake John if the bite hadn't already.

… _eight, nine, ten…_

Sherlock took a tentative breath. Then another. He maybe smiled. Because nothing at all happened. No swearing, no shifting, no ejaculating.

_Excellent._

Very carefully, as if pouring a bucket of sulfuric acid into a 16mm test tube while vigorously riding his husband to completion, Sherlock pulled his head out from beneath the blanket.

Surprisingly, fantastically, gloriously John was still sleeping the sleep of the good and the just.

Sherlock smiled. Sherlock looked down. Sherlock stopped humping the side of the sofa.

Fine. Yes. _Fine._

Now, what Sherlock had to do was a very delicate little operation called Remove the Blanket and Suck John's Cock Again to Replace Some of the Spit That's Currently Being Absorbed Into the Blanket And Also By The Way Don't Make John Come.

Sherlock Holmes has successfully taken one drop of muriatic acid and placed it on the head of a pin (it wasn't for a case, it was more practice in dexterity after the debacle with the— _never mind)_ , so he felt very sure he could take a frankly nasty blanket—that may have last seen the inside of a washing machine during the 1948 London Olympics—and lift it carefully from his husband's fantastically alluring, completely-still-sleeping body.

Then he'd do that thing you can do to generate more slickery spit. No one really talks about it much. Basically you kind of choke. Not really and that's the wrong word, but if there's a technical word for it Sherlock doesn't know what it is and if Sherlock doesn't know the technical word for something there probably isn't one.

All Sherlock knows is that sometimes he wants John now, fast, _here._ Sometimes John wants him here, fast, _now._ And sometimes that means sucking but sometimes it means fucking and when you're on the escaped suspect's boat and the idea to have sex on the waterbed while you rock gently on Regent's canal strikes…well frankly one rarely has lubricant in such situations.

But there's not a lot of time and spitting into your own palm lacks a certain romance and frankly John showed him that if you just go down on a man as far as you can it's going to trigger your gag reflex and that's going to trigger your spit reflex and boy howdy do that a few times and who needs a petrolatum-based product?

So. Right. Long way of saying Sherlock took John's cock in until he was gagging on it and being as Sherlock's as human as the next man, his mouth filled with spit, that spit slicked all over John and—

John was moaning now the way he did back on the canal boat. And now, as then, Sherlock started keening in reply because that's how this works, one of them takes literal and metaphorical hold of the other and _brings him over._

Except no, no, no, that's not what Sherlock wanted right now and so Sherlock stilled. John did not. And then John did, a little. And then a little more, until finally, Sherlock's pretty sure, John was no longer dreaming but again simply sleeping.

 _Erect,_ yes, but sleeping.

After calming the hell down Sherlock gently took his mouth from his husband's cock, looked down at him a good long while, smiled a small crooked smile at _John,_ his John and—

After he stopped humping the couch again, Sherlock took a deep breath and carefully, slowly slinked back onto the sofa, long back pressed lightly to John's front.

And then Sherlock spit.

Quietly. Into his own hand, because the best way to get this show on the road was with two slick surfaces, and so Sherlock politely spit into his own palm (you know Sherlock, he can and will do things no one else will, so just be happy he didn't shove a finger down his own throat to _maximise saliva flow,_ okay?).

Anyway, he spit and did so like a gentleman and then Sherlock did what no one currently living will be surprised to hear: He rubbed that spit tenderly and slowly along the fine, fine crack of his arse.

And took his time.

The temptation. The tease. The wanting and almost having but not yet not quite yet almost almost almost…good _god_ it's one of the best addictions Sherlock has ever had.

He's happily on board with the having and the needing now, fast, here, but this, its opposite, the ability to linger and wring from sex or a sweet or a kiss absolutely everything it's got to give…well a brain like Sherlock's, it not only can do it, it positively _craves_ it.

And so he made use of those sensitive fingers by fingering that small sensitive part of himself.

And took his time.

Sherlock learned early on that there was a lot right there in that small hidden place, if you want there to be. Part of the allure is that it's a part of yourself you never see, and so if you're curious—and he is—and you want to know about it—and Sherlock does—you must touch, touch, touch. Touch where the skin gathers soft and strange, touch where all those gathers meet in a tight ring, and then because it's what humans do—we _open_ things that are closed, we always look behind a door, or in a box under the bed—well it was the most natural thing in the world to _push_ that finger inside himself.

Deep breath.

It wasn't so much the feeling of that finger inside him as it was simply the knowledge that it was there, that turned Sherlock on. The knowledge that he was somewhere maybe he wasn't supposed to be.

Sherlock loves being where he is emphatically not supposed to be.

Cheeks flushing with blood—he could feel them heat up and feeling it made him flush hotter still—breath gone shallow, Sherlock pressed that spit-slick finger deeper then let his body's own tendency to tighten kind of thrust that finger right back on out. And then Sherlock went still a little while because that's how this is done, two steps forward one step back, and when, after awhile, he realised that spit isn't quite lube, that it evaporates more quickly, Sherlock got on with it. He took hold of his dick with one hand, braced himself on the edge of the sofa with the other and—

—there it was again, John's cock, pushing.

Sherlock held his breath and himself and he waited.

There was quite a bit of shifting going on behind him: A wayward butt of a sandy head, something jabbing him in the region of the waist, a swift kick to the back of his calf, but of cock there was utterly no— _s-s-siiiign!_

The blunt head of John's erection jammed against the underside of Sherlock's arse and the good detective, entirely too wound up for his own good, instinctively clenched so hard he got a muscle-seizing cramp in his right arse cheek and—

While Sherlock lay on the floor, massaging the spasm in his bum and the rug burn on his forehead, he thought that surely there must be a more sensible way to do this.

And no, waking John up was the exact opposite of sensible because the way in which Sherlock wanted to do this, the way in which Sherlock hoped to be done, was _this_ way. Yes, this weird, sexy, strange way: While John slept through it.

Who knows about the vagaries of human sexual desire? Some people are turned on by the plump curve of hip spilling over the top of tight trousers; some can watch a man jog by with his dog and discreetly paw at their privates; and some, apparently, go breathless at the thought of their husband's body yearning for pleasure, for release, even while he dreams, and of their body _giving_ it to him.

Cramp now receded, Sherlock waved away pesky thoughts. It didn't matter why he wanted what he wanted for heaven's sake, now it only mattered _how._

Because let's be clear about this: Sherlock was quite willing to fall off the couch pretty much all night if at the end of it he had come dribbling out his arse and a similarly dripping fist. But if he didn't think things through more carefully, and soon, one of these times the thud of his dense bones was going to wake John right on up and that would then be the end of everything and—

Oh. _Ooooh._

Yes, well, _that_ was obvious.

_How is this still going? I don't understand, it's five thousand words of build up and falling, during which I've had so much fun I actually once truly aspirated my own spit. Which, given the subject matter, seems entirely appropriate._


	4. Chapter 4

For the last ten plus hours Sherlock Holmes has been enjoying some fantastic foreplay.

This foreplay has included restful sleep, cuddling on the couch with his husband, and waking to find that in sleep their bodies had been devotedly trying to align themselves for sexual congress of the anal variety.

Once awakened to this reality, Sherlock happily continued the foreplay by _not waking his husband._ (He has John's permission for this, by the way, and this is far from the first time these two have engaged in the heady charms of somnophilia.)

Anyway, for the last forty minutes Sherlock Holmes has been doing what he can to get John Watson's sleep-erect cock inside his own over-eager arse but Sherlock has, unfortunately, faced some unexpected obstacles.

1) Without the direct participation of one of the parties, it's very difficult to get a nice big boner inside a tight little hole.

2) Even under the best of circumstances, lubricant of some sort is required to insert a hard-on into an anus, and due to a frantic few weeks they do not have any lube of the conventional variety.

3) Overcoming these first two obstacles has, so far, involved Sherlock falling off the sofa three times, four if you count just now when he got back on just in time for John to grunt and shove. That time Sherlock only half fell off, one long arm shooting out and bracing itself against the floor.

So yes, obstacles. Sherlock's been faced with a fair few as he tries to get gently drippy shaft A into accommodating orifice B.

He has, however, conquered the worst of the confounding obstacles.

Beaming smugly into the dark, Sherlock once again got back onto the sofa, pressing his warm back up against John's hot front. John responded this time as he has responded many times: He tried to shove his wanting dick into his husband's willing bottom.

This time, Sherlock triumphantly did not fall off the couch.

He just sort of rolled a little onto the now-flush coffee table which, you'll be surprised to learn, is exactly the same height as the sofa.

_Ouch._

Though not half so soft, especially when you've left a brace of hedgehog quills on it from last week's crucial veterinarian-clearing experiment.

After Sherlock extracted a quill from just left of his balls, and after he shoved the other quills (and a small acetylene torch, a wayward jelly baby, and a stale take-away papadum) off the table in a fit of pique, Sherlock wriggled back onto the sofa.

 _No more messing around, Mr. Holmes-Watson._ If you want to get happily fucked while John sleeps through the whole sweaty business, the time to spread it is _now._

With that Sherlock wiggled, he squirmed, he got one arm between the sofa and his hip, the other in mirror position, and just as John quested forward with his, uh, lance, Sherlock took hold of his arse and _opened._

Aaand…

Touchdown!

Goal!

A hole in one!

Pushing sports analogies aside, Sherlock pushed back onto John. A nice baritone squeal escaped him before he could call it back, but that was fine because as John sank in right on up to his balls the good doctor started talking again—

"Stk hvta bssst k."

—but as before Sherlock didn't understand a word. Didn't matter, they were communicating quite clearly in the way that mattered most. And that way had all the damn nerve endings in Sherlock's body ramping toward orgasm so quickly that—

_Oh for absolute fuck sake._

How Sherlock managed to roll right off the far edge of the coffee table he doesn't know, but he's grateful that at least the short journey across gave him a precious moment to release his own arse and do that muscle-tensing thingy again so that he landed on the rug almost soundlessly.

So over-aroused now that the roots of his _hair_ were erect, Sherlock lay on that quite-nice rug and he thought.

Here's something you may not know: impatient Sherlock, hurry-hurry Holmes, the man who dashes and darts and wants this-that-clues-a-case now, now, _now…_ Well that man has never, not one time, in seven years of making love with John ever, _ever_ thought, felt, or said, "Well that took too long."

No, long is what this tall man's all about; teasing and tempting and dragging things out until they have to pop paracetamol to cope with the muscle cramps from _not coming._

But this was bordering on ridiculous, mostly because if orgasms were not soon doled out, a matching set preferably, Sherlock was going to need hospital care. Not just for multiple contusions, rug burn, and an allergic reaction currently forming around the site of a quill puncture, but possibly also therapy to cope with the unusual feeling of _not getting things right._

There, on the burgundy-forest green-dark blue rug John had bought several weeks ago Sherlock rolled onto his belly, tucked his hands beneath his chin, and while he ruminatively humped the rug, he thought about what he was doing wrong.

1)

2)

3)

Nothing.

 _Nothing._ There was not one way to improve this situation.

That was a lie. There _was_ one way to improve it and that was through tenacity and Sherlock will tell you that there are few more tenacious than he and as a matter of fact—

_Ouch._

Sherlock rolled onto his side.

After pulling the hedgehog quill out of his thigh—hmm, even in pale streetlight he could see the inflammation starting—Sherlock peeked over the edge of the coffee table.

As if making a judgment about the whole messy thing John had turned away. He—and his marvelous erection—were now facing the back of the sofa.

Sherlock was _this_ close to committing hari-kari via hedgehog.

And then Sherlock proved the parameters of super-geniusing: He rose, crawled across the coffee table, and he lay down behind his husband, smug in the realisation that _you can not fall on the floor if you aren't facing it._

Now, he needed to start again.

Sherlock's thumping heart agreed that _yes, indeed, we must start spitting and rubbing and foreplay-ing all over again._

Unsure his heart or hair follicles could take any more of this, Sherlock silently and copiously spit in his palm. He slicked himself up with it and then he slicked up his fingers good and he softly, gently, carefully rubbed them along the crack of John's arse.

_"Fffffk."_

Sherlock was pretty sure he understood _that_ bit of dream talk.

Suddenly feeling a little bit fantastic, Sherlock sort of chewed on his tongue to generate more of nature's lubricant, spit that onto squirmy-bold fingers, and he carefully, gently, eagerly pushed those fingers into John's body.

It's not right. We know it's not right. As a matter of fact it borders not only on the cruel but the absurd, but it must be said:

When a sleeping army doctor vigorously pushed back on those squirming fingers the man to whom those fingers belonged succeeded in: 1) rolling off the sofa 2) doing it in such a way that his fleshy fundament pushed the coffee table away from the sofa 3) falling on the floor.

Sherlock's fingers, however, managed to _stay inside John's arse._ This was good and went far toward preventing the temper tantrum that might have resulted in ordinary circumstances.

From his now-familiar spot on the rug, Sherlock squinted over the edge of the couch, the better to enjoy the shadowy sight before him.

Oh and didn't that just look marvelous?

That was a rhetorical question, for Sherlock really didn't care what anyone else thought, the sight of a sleeping John thrusting back on Sherlock's deeply inserted fingers was, frankly, celestial. It was a sight angels would wish to see if angels 1) existed, 2) wanted to see sexually celestial things.

Sherlock didn't care if they are or if they do or pretty much about anything other than watching John vigorously and unconsciously fucking himself on Sherlock's hand.

John enjoys sex when he's awake, but there's always the need, when conscious, to include your lover's pleasure into the equation. Of course. So far so obvious.

But when you're alone—or, apparently, asleep—one can be entirely self-focused. So self-focused that you just ride 'em cowboy. Giddyup. Head boldly on into the sunse—

Sherlock yelped and tugged his fingers gently out of John's arse. Though he couldn't see John's cock he's very familiar with the sexual tells of this man's body. John had been three seconds—give or take two—from coming.

Sherlock was going to have to be more careful.

No, no, what Sherlock was going to have to be was _proactive._

And he knew exactly how to do that because, he's a super genius and as any super genius wanting to have sex with his sleeping husband will tell you, the best way for Sherlock to avoid falling off the sofa, the very best way to stay put, was for Sherlock to _attach himself to the object that kept shoving him off._ Which is to say join his body to John's by one swollen bit of proud flesh and through the fastening nature of such a coupling prevent himself from being dislodged once and for all.

Fine, good, again so far so obvious. Foreplay was done, it was time to get down to the business of doing unto John what he'd hoped John would do unto him.

Carefully, quietly, with great cranky care Sherlock moved the _stupid_ coffee table which had _stupidly_ failed to _stupidly_ stay in place when he'd most needed it.

Yes, this meant he was now at risk of falling off the sofa in the few tenuous seconds between clamouring on and thrusting in, but there was no other option and, as has been previously mentioned, Sherlock was quite prepared to fall off the sofa all night if it meant some sleepy-time humpy-bumpy with John.

So up he got onto that sofa, knowing full well he might have mere seconds before calamity struck, and so he got right down to business.

*Spit*Slick*Spit*Spit*Slick* After Sherlock's erection was good and wet he paused to listen carefully to John's breathing—it was steady, sonorous with sleep—and then more carefully still he parted John's arse cheeks and he pushed…he pushed…he uh, prodded, poked, shoved—

"Fuck."

Sherlock was apparently so over-aroused, so, so… _swollen_ … he couldn't easily penetrate John. John who was now actively and vigorously pushing back on him, John who was, in his sleep, actually trying to help.

Sherlock used to be a weepy, sensitive little kid. There are parts of him that are still exactly that child. Some of those parts he allows free reign—tantrums, selfish demands—other parts he's learned to hide—petulant weeping when he doesn't get his own way—but honest to damn god he was rethinking that last bit.

If Sherlock Holmes did not soon get a cock in he was going to break down into snotty tears and no one, including the most self-indulgent man on earth, wanted that.

So.

This time Sherlock didn't exactly fall off the couch, he _rolled._

Because he had an idea.

It once again involved nature's lube, his mouth, and John's succulent arse.

Sherlock was going to rim John receptive. He was going to tongue and lick and slick his husband up so fantastically well that getting a cock in was going to be as easy as, well, as easy as falling off a sofa.

_RIMMING, WHERE IN HELL IS THE RIMMING? I've had more than one comment asking that and I'm going to apologise because it's not yet here. It's next. Why we have got nowhere near the rimming or an orgasm yet I can not tell you unless 1) I've had an aneurysm and don't know it, or 2) I'm absolutely, positively in love with Sherlock falling off the sofa. Let us go with two. Every time he does it I softly bang my head against the table and have hysterics. Which, apparently, is habit-forming. Anyway, maybe someone's actually going to come in the next chapter. Maybe. This much I know: There will be rimming. Finally and at last quite a bit of rimming._


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock loves rimming.

Not as much as John, if 'not as much' can be defined as not possessing the household record for rimming, which John does indeed possess, having once spent well over an hour licking Sherlock out. (So stimulating was this experience that Sherlock found himself in possession of a nosebleed at one point, so sharply did he huff and puff.)

Anyway, Sherlock is fond of paying John this form of attention and it was he who introduced the practice into their repertoire. At first John had been dubious—germs, harumph-harumph, plenty of other things we can do—and then Sherlock 'accidentally' left a browser window open wherein one man was slowly, carefully, and with great softly-moaning care going down on another man's arse.

Soon after it was [big red ribbons](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/37718387599/twas-the-fortnight-before-christmas-11-december) and _all aboard the rimming train._

Once converted John loved the giving and the getting. As a matter of fact, that entire first month had been nearly wall-to-wall with tongues in arses. It got to the point that John would whisper in Sherlock's ear and right in front of Lestrade, "Are you still wet from this morning, love? Are you?"

And while the unspoken reply generally was, "No of course I'm not still wet from the fantastic tonguing you gave my arse this morning, I've since showered again," the answer was truthfully also, "But I'm getting there up front due to the pre-come, so if you could just stop sexually stimulating me while we work, John, I'd appreciate it."

So the point is, Sherlock loves rimming. He loves getting and giving but, if forced to choose, he'll say he relishes the giving more, and for an entirely selfish reason: John is so responsive that Sherlock feels like a sexual superhero.

While Sherlock's got a healthy ego—you may have noticed—and rarely feels at a loss with his one-lover history compared to John's sweetheart-to-the-regiment past, Sherlock does enjoy knowing he's the only one who's pleasured John this way and therefore he is, was, and shall always be the best John's ever had, in all the _ways_ John can be had.

And there are many.

Over a desk, for example. (It was that first week after and they could not get enough, and Lestrade had given them the keys to that Starbucks anyway (the manager was a suspect) and besides the place was closed and frankly what are you supposed to do with a perfectly fine teak desk if not bend your husband over it, tug his trousers to his thighs, and lick him until he comes?).

Or during Christmas (Sherlock knows John knows that Mycroft knew what they were doing between dinner and the dessert wine, but as Mycroft's in some ways entirely more conservative than his brother he couldn't very well call them on what they were doing in the solarium though from the sound of knees hitting hardwoods, the moaning, and the rumbling of "oh god open wider, John" Mycroft knew perfectly well).

Between London and Oxford (a pretty but boring drive that had them trying to figure out why rimming each other was kind of currently _the best thing ever_ but before they could solve _that_ case John was groping himself and Sherlock was twice veering off the road and finally he just pulled off somewhere near Stokenchurch and before he even got the key from the ignition John was knees-down, bare-arse-high in the rented SUV's ample cargo area).

With his own tongue deep inside Sherlock (this isn't even one Sherlock can think about right now because it'll send him right over the edge, but if he _could_ think about it he'd tell you that rimming your husband while his tongue squirms around inside you is, for him, the surest way to a rare premature ejaculation and a nosebleed).

So yes, there are dozens more ways Sherlock has proved he's the best rimming John's ever had but the one currently of greatest interest to Sherlock right now was _unconsciously._

Yes, so, on his knees beside the sofa, Sherlock licked his lips, huffed softly, and he bent over his work.

And was instantly rewarded, for the moment he placed his warm, wet tongue _right there,_ John keened softly and arched his back.

Sherlock groaned, then went still and silent, as if John wouldn't notice his own spread cheeks or the tongue between them should the moan have woke him.

Fortunately John was exhausted and so fortunately John continued to sleep. After counting to make absolutely sure of this fact, Sherlock went back to work, and that work was 1) eating his husband out and 2) trying hard not moan while he did it. Fortunately, being as he was kneeling on the floor and bent over while performing this act, he did not have to worry about falling on the surprisingly comfortable new rug or humping the side of the sofa.

At this time.

Frankly there were no worries worth worrying about right now. Sherlock was in a happy, heady little feedback loop, swiping that tongue slow, pushing it deep, listening for John's soft keening, echoing it with his own.

And through it all Sherlock thought: _This is what your pleasure sounds like John. Pleasure undimmed by consideration, by concern for my needs. This is what you sound like when you_ revel.

Opening John wider with one warm hand, Sherlock ran the other high along his back, spread his fingers between the wings of John's shoulder blades.

 _Wings._ This fine broad back once bore [beautiful henna wings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/463676/chapters/800046), painted there for Sherlock. Yet over the years the man who wore those wings instead gave Sherlock flight, teaching him how to do what he did better, then how to do even more than that.

Sherlock stopped licking and pressed his forehead against the ripe swell of one fine cheek. _I'm better than I ever could have been because of you. I fly…because of you._

Sherlock growled-purred-moaned, ran big hands greedily over this small man's body. _I have_ this _because of you._

And this was _this,_ damn it: Skin and sweat and sex. It was wanting and knowing and needing. It was licking and fingering, sucking and coming. It was a veritable suite of the sensual and sexual, it was emphatically not food but it fed him cell-deep, it was a distraction but it focused him, and oh lord Sherlock had spent thirty-four years without.

What an idiot.

Maybe that was why Sherlock was often hungry for this, why he found his head turned with ease by this unassuming dynamo. When John said _I want,_ so often Sherlock was ready, so ready to simply say _I will._ And that was the most beautiful feedback loop he had ever known.

There in pre-dawn dark Sherlock made a moue. He's good at those. How, he wondered, had he gone from rutting and rimming to tender-hearted and almost teary?

John sighed, shivered, pressed back against Sherlock's warmth and that, _that_ was how.

John may have given _this,_ but Sherlock had in return given him something just as sweet: The warmth of his want, his desire. John fed on that need, was hungry for it. In the end it was as simple as this: John and Sherlock were each fuel for the other's flame.

_In the end…_

Yes, well, returning to that with a growl and the tug of big, strong hands, Sherlock opened John again, lavished him with this most particular of attentions, and it was not long before a regiment of gooseflesh marched up John's spine and a deep rumbling moan filled the night-silent room.

Tongue in the middle of tonguing, Sherlock froze.

Because there was no doubt about it, that moan, the one Sherlock did right then? That was pretty much loud enough for the dry cleaner across Baker to hear it.

But…

…exhaustion is a marvelous thing and Sherlock would shake its hand if it had one because John did not wake, John did not shift, John simply continued cooing his pleasure in high sighing moans.

And maybe Sherlock started to believe a little bit in heaven.

Because certainly—long, warm tongue dragging soft until it ran across the bump of John's coccyx— _this_ was paradise? Where else could Sherlock possibly want to be—tongue squirming, wriggling, returning back where it was most wanted and John cooed again—than here, doing this?

All right, there are dozens of things on Sherlock's dance card, of which making love to John is just one, but before Captain John Watson entered his life, sex was not even invited to the consulting detective's party, much less queuing for time with him.

Which is the slightly oblique way of saying that sometimes this, right here, giving John what John wants, is truly all that Sherlock wants.

And what John wanted now was Sherlock's tongue in him, flutter-soft and seeking, wanted blood-hot lips nipping at puckered flesh, he wanted humid breath wetting him, preparing him.

Sleeping John, dreaming John, he was _complicit_ John, and so it was his turn to huff and puff with each push inside him, it was the sweet deep curve at the small of _his_ back which presented his plump arse for plundering, it was each and every moan he made that kept Sherlock on his knees, content.

Content to feed, to feast, to get while he gave, and while Sherlock's genius-level sure of many things, in some ways sex remains a mystery. He still doesn't understand how it can turn his brain off _and_ blaze it so bright he feels he's god damn glowing. He's not yet clear on why John's hand on his arse can focus him, why entering John's body takes him out of his own, and why he long ago thought all of this so very beneath him.

Another uninhibited moan, and Sherlock realised he was shaking, so over-damn-stimulated by everything, all of it, that he was _trembling._

All right. Time. It was time.

With a final sloppy-wet, lubricating lick, Sherlock hummed his approval. They were ready. Finally. This would work. Finally. John's arse was wet enough to welcome a battalion—and why was _that_ such an unexpectedly sexy thought—certainly it would happily yield to the penetrations of a persistent consulting cock?

A kiss to the small, warm, temptingly _tight_ area—he really is a tender-hearted type, is Sherlock Holmes—and the great detective pulled away from John's gently pumping hips and began climbing onto…

"John?"

…onto…

"John?"

… _onto the—_ "JOHN!"

You couldn't have heard Sherlock's shout if you were more than a foot from him, and as a matter of fact it didn't even reach John's ears. But _Sherlock_ heard Sherlock's shout and it mobilised him fast.

For though still sleeping, so vigorous had John become in seeking the return of that squirmy tongue, the good doctor had nearly thrust himself off the edge of the sofa by his own back end.

So now, as they had been not ten minutes previous, one of Sherlock's fingers was inserted into John's arse right on up to the last sharp knuckle. John grunted his sleeping approval at this and, for all intents and purposes, John Watson started to _ride._

Sherlock absolutely could not help himself.

He watched.

How the hell could he not? He might himself have a hard-on so over-cooked it was about to burn, so to speak, but he forgot it while hearing, seeing, damn-well nearly _tasting_ the greedy pleasure John took in that finger. Those hips of his did things Sherlock's never seen them do when guided by a conscious John. There was, for lack of a better term, _swirling,_ all right? A sort of sinuous weaving as John's emphatically unshy body sought the pressure and the placement it most wanted from that dexterous digit.

Which is to say, John fucked himself hard, fast, and happily on Sherlock's finger and it was the finest thing Sherlock had seen in a long history of fine, fine things.

And for many blissful moments Sherlock simply watched John ride, galloping hard toward a completion Sherlock was more than willing to help give him, but then one small amazing thing happened.

John's gallop slowed to a canter. John's canter slowed to a trot.

John's trot went to a walk and, if we're going to carry the horse analogy all the way through, John stopped dead in the pasture and began to crop the grass—which is to say John's exhausted body fell back into deep delta oblivion.

Which was, actually, just super-extra-special fine.

Finger pleasantly snug in a very familiar place, his other hand lightly teasing his own dripping prick, Sherlock idly wondered exactly how long each of them could be kept on this breathless brink. He wondered if it was possible to spontaneously orgasm simply in response the bright warmth of a sunbeam across turgid flesh. He wondered if John would wake up before this was over, he wondered, as John began clenching around his slim finger, what John would do next.

_The final chapters bring us past the ten thousand word mark of a fic that, so far, is basically fingering, falling, and now rimming. My god I love writing John and Sherlock porn._


	6. Chapter 6

Sexually speaking Sherlock's a patient man, as we have said. Kindly attend:

The good detective once took so long sucking John off he gave himself lockjaw.

He has on more than one occasion slow-fucked his husband until there was significant chafing and a need for ointments after.

Sherlock once spent two hours belly-slapping erect at a crime scene tease-whispering the scientific names for sex acts in John's blush-rimmed ear.

So now, in five a.m. dark, with a single long finger buried deep in his husband's arse, Sherlock was perfectly content to patiently wait and see what sleeping John would do next.

The _scientist_ in Sherlock, however, was just a teensy bit curious as to what he could _make_ sleeping John do next.

So, forging ahead in the spirit of exploration, the first thing Sherlock tried was languidly pumping his finger deeply in to and out of his husband's rosy-cheeked behind. While these attentions caused John to huff stuttery little gasps—again, nothing like the sounds the good doctor made when awake—it was Sherlock who responded most strongly, humming happily each time he sank in up to the last knuckle.

Next Sherlock worked John's prostate. While the good doctor's little nub is responsive, the pleasure is rather more holistic than local and direct stimulation usually has him twitching away instead of toward. A sleeping John was very little different, the only variance being the appealing little clench each time Sherlock's fingertip gently brushed the gland.

Sherlock then took his time breathing hotly over John's tight little pucker, perhaps even murmuring small endearments at it. With each moist exhalation John clenched a tiny bit harder.

After ten minutes of these varied and gentle experiments in seeing what he could make John do, Sherlock came to the conclusion that the answer was _not very much._

Because John doesn't mess around. If he's going to fall in love, he doesn't give a shit about gender; if he's going to fight crime, he shoots people; and, apparently, if he's going to be tired, he's going to commit with BAMF vigour to exhaustion, so what-a-week-we've-had rung out he'll simply skip having a spectacular orgasm in favour of rest-and-recovery.

Sherlock, however, is emphatically not John.

No, Sherlock is Sherlock and Sherlock is the one who _gives_ John the what-a-weeks, taking cases that require scaling the London Eye at three in the morning, cases that are suddenly resolved the moment John bites into a centipede, and it was this Sherlock who just then responded for both of them.

He stopped what he was doing.

Because if John was so tired even his sleeping body decided to forego the pleasures of orgasm, then maybe it was a teensy bit not good for Sherlock to continue taking _his_ pleasure from John.

So when John stilled again Sherlock did, too.

The good detective was then ready to do three things: 1) withdraw from his husband's ripe behind 2) jerk himself off in the loo 3) crawl back on the couch with his sleepy beloved.

Fortunately it was right there and right then that John at last recuperated fully and entered a completely normal sleep cycle. And so, as Sherlock began pulling his finger out, John's body tightened around it and, with a throaty rumble, the good doctor started to ride.

Now for those who haven't enjoyed the pleasures of anal sex, it might seem a slim detectivey finger, no matter how bendy and long, couldn't possibly compare to a nice, thick cock.

There you would be wrong.

Think of a cock as sturdy, utilitarian. Sink down on one and it'll take you toward toe-curling bliss with the single-minded focus of a horse galloping toward sunset.

Fingers, in this tenuous analogy, are like unicorns. As regards anal sex, you'll find they're more elegant, their very lack of heft giving them grace. Fingers can flex and find, they can tease you open, spread you wide, make room for tongue or toy.

And though John is quite a fan of utilitarian and often keen on a good gallop, tonight John Watson was very definitely a unicorn sort of man. So to speak.

And so, as Sherlock began to withdraw, John shoved his bottom back until his husband's finger was again pushed in all the way. And then John grunted and he groaned, he panted and he moaned and for his part Sherlock stayed mostly still like a good little unicorn, occasionally curling his finger or matching thrust, but overall he kind of just hummed along and if Sherlock had unconsciously taken hold of his own cock and started stroking in time with each thrust into his husband's body Sherlock was not exactly aware of this.

Until he was. The awareness came along about the time Sherlock's balls were pulling tight in preparation for launch, so to speak, and it was then the good detective realised several things: He would soon have in hand fairly copious amounts of a semi-lubricating fluid and while he was in a prime place to eject that fluid on his husband's bum, what Sherlock really needed was to get the stuff onto his _own_ back end so as to make slickery the thing that had needed slicking for ten thousand years give or take one hour and so it was while Sherlock was delaying his own ejaculation to better contemplate collecting the ejaculate, that John slowed, then slowed some more…then stopped.

John went still.

Then, in what felt like the absolute gravest of tragedies, on par with Christmas without a triple homicide, the good doctor wriggled himself off the digit embedded in him and then—oh it _is_ Christmas!—began turning around.

Almost.

What naked John actually did was go flat on his bare belly and begin to hump the sofa.

Sherlock could completely understand this need.

And while things were not exactly proceeding as he'd hoped, Sherlock is a flexible man. Given little more than [a snare drum and a wooden clog](../../441850/chapters/762247) he once brought a ruthless cat burglar to heel. With a half-cup of tepid tea and three strands of hair he located a legendary embezzler. Sherlock Holmes knows how to _make adjustments._

His first adjustment then: He took in the show. Because of all the things this last hour had given him, the vision splendid of a reveling John was by far the most cherished.

So Sherlock watched the good doctor languorously poke that sofa with a fantastically-erect cock. He watched him lift his bum high in the air like a fetching little inch worm, then thrust down, each time with a tiny grunt that lilted up at the end, as if to ask:

_Is this my voluptuous husband I feel before me?_  
 _His arse toward my cock?_  
 _Come let me fuck thee._  
 _But wait, I feel thee not and yet, and yet…_  
 _…this sofa will do quite nicely for now._

Part of Sherlock wanted to reply _art thou not sensible to feeling that the sofa is not my arse?_ but being as he didn't know even one line of _Macbeth,_ much less a dagger-y couplet or three, instead Sherlock enjoyed his little inch worm inching toward orgasm and, ready fist wrapped around his own prick, he'd have merrily gone along for the ride, except John's inquisitive grunts soon became more demanding, as if to say:

_Seriously, what the bloody hell_  
 _I can't get enough friction_  
 _On this spring-sprung sofa_  
 _If I don't come soon I'll wake up grumpy_

Right. Well. It was time for another adjustment. It was time for Sherlock to again do what Sherlock had already done but was happy to do again: it was time to eat out John's arse.

An act that would now have to be approached quite delicately, for John's pale moons were facing ceilingward, his thighs clamped together, and he was pumping away with increasingly quick abandon.

Fortunately Sherlock's a super genius and his limbs are long. And so Sherlock took a spidery hovering position over his husband's body—toes on sofa arm, hands grasping for willy-nilly purchase anywhere—and dipped down just far enough so that on each upward pump John found a nice hot tongue poking between his cheeks.

Grumpy grunts turned into happy sounds and though he was arms-and-legs-akimbo, and in the worst possible position for long-term comfort, Sherlock did not care. Because John was cooing again, he was doing that hip-swirly thing again, and though the good doctor was quite asleep and Sherlock couldn't prove anything to anyone Sherlock was pretty sure he was soon to be within sighting distance of the household record for rimming.

Because as before, John's response to the tongue lapping at him was lavish. He arched his sweet bum into the air, shoving Sherlock's tongue well up inside him, and then in fine counterpoint John humped the sofa cushions, only to return for a different sort of poking and lather, rinse, repeat until breathless and heady.

This feedback loop would have gone on for as long as long bones and reedy muscles could stand, but then John went and surprised Sherlock and Sherlock, being Sherlock, completely over-reacted, and everything nearly went to hell in a hand basket except that it didn't.

No, it all just got a teensy bit more fabulous.

 _After_ Sherlock found an entirely new way to fall off the sofa.

_My apologies to Shakespeare and Macbeth for the, uh, whole dagger quote that I mishandled to sexual effect. P.S. This was supposed to be the final chapter but I rewrote and extended the end because you wanted more story and more falling—that comes next chapter—and that seemed like a marvelous idea. P.P.S. If anyone wanted to draw Sherlock as a unicorn I feel certain they would ascend bodily to heaven soon after._


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes Sherlock can become so focused on a thing he doesn't see or hear any other thing.

This is perhaps best represented by the time he scorched off both eyebrows during a delicate experiment, but failed to smell the smoke, feel the sting, or notice their lack until he went downstairs for coffee and Mr. Chatterjee screamed.

There have been many other times when Sherlock didn't notice the dancing bear in the room, so caught up was he with a clue, a cock, or the cha-cha of random neurons firing in his head. Which is to say it's not even a teensy bit surprising Sherlock was so devoted to licking his delicious little inch worm that he failed to notice John was now showing unmistakable signs of overstimulation. Though his engine was revving like a bad arse mother fucker, John's body was about to put on the brake.

[It's happened before](../../463676/chapters/810144), this too much all over everywhere everything can't breathe hypersensitive stop stop stop thing, and it'll happen again. Then, as now, John has to do one thing: Move away from the stimulant.

And so, while Sherlock was happily zoned out, devotedly rimming his husband, John reached the exact limit of what his overstimulated nerves could take and with a moaning-growl he arched up—

…that's when Sherlock began his over-reaction, scrabbling atop the back of the sofa…

—then John humped down and began turning.

…and that's when Sherlock finished over-reacting, trying to go invisible by jerking backward.

And _that_ is when Sherlock's solid frame pushed the sofa away from the wall and his entire long body fell to the floor behind it with a muffled thud.

Impossibly, no one woke.

Sherlock, however, did several things.

1) Nearly blew his brains out trying to stifle a sneeze.

2) Groaned. There was no new burgundy-blue-green rug behind the sofa, so a large part of naked Sherlock had made contact with a large part of dusty hardwood.

3) Lay there wondering what he was doing with his life.

Probably Sherlock would be there still if the room had remained quiet. Because, even though his left arse cheek was cramping, though he had dust right on up both nasal passages, and though he'd been leaking precome for so long now it was a wide and glistening smear across his belly, Sherlock can get so lost in his thinky place that hours pass like minutes.

However, despite the allure of figuring out how he could have spent this last hour _successfully_ getting a cock up his arse, such was not to be Sherlock's destiny.

Because John started to talk.

"Ooh."

At first it was one clear word, short and so very sweet because even back behind a bulky sofa and festooned with sound-softening dust bunnies, Sherlock could hear the delight in it.

And he knew not only that John was dreaming again, but that now he was in it.

John thinks Sherlock doesn't know he has, for lack of a better term, damsel-in-distress dreams. In these rollicking adventures across desert sands or high seas, John is bold and strong and brave and he often requires rescue. Something Sherlock usually seems to provide via his cock.

"Yeeesss…"

Though John's not actually told Sherlock any of this Sherlock's not your average bear, dancing or otherwise. From breathy inflections, the bite of a lip, the fast-flutter of lashes, and the occasional dreamy murmur of, "You're my hero, oh harder Sherlock, harder," the good detective's been able to deduce all he needs to know about his husband's humid little fantasies.

One of which he appeared to be having right now.

"Oh my darling…"

Sherlock could just about visualise the harem pants, feel the heaving of John's chest, the spreading of his legs, the glorious stiffness of his cock, and—

Wedged behind the sofa and adorned in downy little balls of dust, Sherlock became aware he was stroking himself off. He stopped stroking himself off. Because now that the cramp had receded and he knew John was still sleeping, Sherlock Never Gives Up Unless He's Bored or Moody or Feels Like Giving Up Holmes was going to go over there and he was going to get himself fucked right up the arse or so help him.

Carefully and quietly, as if the brush of his palm across the flocked wallpaper might wake his heavy sleeper, Sherlock wriggled himself upright, until he stood behind that couch like Venus on the half-shell.

And there he was, his good doctor, whispering sweet nothings to his Sherlockian sheikh or pirate, his ram-rod stiff erection hard and dripping and clearly in need of urgent consultation with consulting arse.

Well then, Sherlock knew what to do about that.

_Everything he'd already done only more so._

Again moving as if the lightest footfall might wake the neighbourhood, Sherlock shimmied sideways until he was free of the back of the sofa. Sherlock then tip-toed—rose up on those crazy prehensile toes and _tipped_ on them—over to a now-familiar land: The rugged floor in front of the couch.

There Sherlock stood tall, held on to what had in the last sixty minutes become his close, personal, leaky little friend, and Sherlock looked upon his husband.

And it was good.

Because John was delightful in his delight. At this point he was keeping up a fairly steady stream of nonsense words, the occasional bit of English breaking through— _yes, deeper,_ and _oh fuck_ being prominent—and he was clearly very happy with what was being done unto him in his dream. Sherlock knew this not only by the happy keening and the lovely pleading, but by the fact that John was so magnificently stiff Sherlock was sure he could, at this point, literally put an eye out.

Well then, Sherlock was going to do something about that. With a firm-jawed nod of his curly-headed head Sherlock spit.

And then rubbed.

Then spit.

Then rubbed.

Then did this four more times, spreading saliva along the seam of his arse while he watched the lascivious thrusting hips before him, and when he was sure he was slicked up good, Sherlock slowly, quite carefully stretched out long on the sofa.

John responded to the heat of him by rolling onto his side and pressing his entire front to Sherlock's lengthy back. This time the good detective was prepared and emphatically did not fall, instead he dexterously grabbed hold of John's cock with one hand, guiding the head of that fine, fine thing between the plump flesh of his own arse cheeks, and he tugged himself open with the other. And then he waited.

And waited.

And wai—

John pushed. Then pushed again.

Then finally, _finally_ the slick head of John's cock slipped inside and all the goosebumps in all the world marched themselves across Sherlock's pale and shivering limbs.

And thus it was, after twelve thousand long words, er, after what felt like twelve thousand long years, John's arse-seeking cock at last sank into Sherlock's cock-seeking arse.

But…

Because every tale worth telling must include gripping misadventure and dramatic setback, the moment that thick and weighty thing slid in up to John's balls, the good doctor decided to half-kill his beloved by returning to the restful delta oblivion of which he suddenly seemed so god damned mother fucking fond.

Though scandalised by his own internal swearing, Sherlock immediately set about overcoming this latest dilemma. He was a super genius, he knew how to deal with dilemmas and the dilemmas he _can't_ deal with he simply brow-beats into submission.

The solution to this latest setback would not require Sherlock's patented bull-dozer dramatics however, the answer was deceptively simple: Sherlock must simply move for both of them. Now that a sleeping John was inside him—Sherlock paused to enjoy an arousing wash of skin-prickling adrenaline—all the good detective had to do was pump his hips.

Easy peasy.

With a heady, happy sigh Sherlock seated himself firmly on John's cock, rolled his eyes in heady pleasure, then—

Is it technically possible to fall off a sofa without falling off a sofa?

Yes.

Sherlock achieved this by again miscalculating how much rutting he could do on the narrow real estate of the couch and so moments after he began pumping those hips Sherlock slid off the couch—but only his torso fell. His hips remained _on_ the sofa, firmly held there by the gripping power of a large cock shoved snug into a nice, tight hole.

All right then, mildly jolted from one level of sleep to the other, John again began thrusting away in orgasm-seeking abandon.

Maybe it's because John had been close to coming twice already and both times brought back from the brink, but while third time would prove to be the charm, John's sleeping body wasn't quite so greedy as before, or perhaps the thing it was greedy for now was pleasure, because the good doctor pumped away quite awhile and one can only assume the pleasure left the good doctor half deaf because Sherlock moaned breathy and constant the entire time.

And while there was nothing particularly comfortable about Sherlock's current position, Sherlock will tell you that looks can deceive. Both palms flat on the rug, bum thrust up and onto the thing thrust into him, Sherlock was at the absolute ideal angle to experience John's every inch. As a matter of fact so perfect was the inclination that Sherlock was already taking notes on gradient, thrust, and pressure points, planning on repeating this precise bum-on-the-couch-torso-dangling-down when both of them were awake.

But that was for another time. At this time Sherlock proceeded to huff and puff like the little engine that could, so teeth-chatteringly turned on he was certain his goosebumps now had goosebumps—and maybe erections—of their own.

Adding toe-curling pleasure to what was already rump-smacking satisfaction, Sherlock's position not only aligned him perfectly for a royally fantastic fucking, he also pretty much enjoyed a tantalising view of his own cock, and with fascination and no small measure of arousal watched the engorged thing bead a fresh pearl of pre-come each time John rammed home.

Sherlock would have stayed in that exact position—getting deeply buggered—until toothless and in need of a Zimmer frame, but with a languorous groan, John at last did what good Johns do: He pushed in deep and stilled and Sherlock will swear on a stack of absolutely anything, that he could feel each and every cock-emptying pulse as John came.

Good god it was worth the wait.

Because a dreaming-sleeping- _selfish_ body takes and takes and takes, coming harder and longer than one that's awake. That's what it seemed to Sherlock, who at this point couldn't feel his right leg at all but who could, could, very much _could_ feel that John was coming, oh god he was still _coming,_ and right then Sherlock made a solemn vow that if this was how John wanted to do or be done, if this was how he enjoyed an orgasm so intense and so long Sherlock was sure the nerve endings in his arse were weeping with pleasure, well Sherlock would be happy to arrange that.

That was later, however. What Sherlock needed now was blood flow, because he could no longer feel most of his limbs, though he _could_ feel that _John was still coming._ It was just a little, judging by the long seconds between each spurt, but Sherlock's seen that cock in action, had it in all the ways it was possible to have and he knows when John's done ejaculating and he was emphatically not done ejaculating.

However Sherlock was pretty sure he'd soon suffer loss of circulation to his erection and of all the things currently needing his blood, his dick was at the top of a very short list.

So, with exquisite slowness Sherlock began sliding his arse off John's cock.

He took awhile.

Because that feeling of the withdrawal? It's a divine, jumbled-up mix of discomfort and pleasure and right now Sherlock wanted each wet moment of it.

So Sherlock fell off the sofa for the final time, but in the slowest of motions and complete with moans, loving the sense of every inch of John's inches withdrawing from his body and then out he popped and so help him Sherlock felt the wet warmth of two more hearty spurts from John's cock before the rest of Sherlock settled at last belly-down on the very comfortable rug.

And it was there, in a church-like quiet and with perfect contentment, that Sherlock Holmes proceeded to hump the sweet nubby wool of their new area rug, until he, too, ejaculated for a good, long, soul-relieving time.

* * *

It was about eight in the morning when John Watson woke. Stretching languidly in the sun-warmed sitting room, the good doctor kept his eyes closed and did an internal inventory. He was deliciously boneless. Rested. His muscles felt warm, his soul replete. He didn't feel fair, or good, or even great, John decided, he felt _fan-fucking-tastic._

So fantastic that he was certain he could eat _two_ dozen deep-fried crickets, vanquish _another_ brace of London villains and, hand drifting south to take hold of a rather lovely erection, vigorously roger his husband two ways from Tuesday.

With a lusty sigh John at last opened bright blues to pale morning light and, because he is nearly as observant as Sherlock, John observed his husband snoring contentedly on their nice, new sitting room rug.

John did not have long to wonder at his inamorato's location however, for quite quickly good Dr. Watson keenly observed a few things.

Sherlock was snoring that wheezy little snore he gets when he's all soft muscle, deep sleep, and good dreams.

Sherlock's skin was a delicious pale pink, so rosy and sweet it looked succulent enough to eat.

And Sherlock was…Sherlock was very, very…wet. More specifically, Sherlock was shiny-slick wet in the region of his _arse hole._

Suddenly a bit breathless John looked down at his cock. There he saw a thing that is not possible except for the two times in the history of time that it has _been_ possible: There John saw a glistening-thin strand of come connecting the tip of his cock to the wet of Sherlock's arse.

John went woozy from sudden want.

He would get the particulars later—every last particular of the particulars and you better believe it; as a matter of fact John'll have Sherlock tell the story (they will call it Fucking & Falling) many times over many years—but right now John was pretty sure he knew a few very sexy things.

1) He, John Watson, had slept-buggered his husband.

2) He had, while he snoozed, had a quite spectacular orgasm, if the copious amount of come he could see glistening on Sherlock's rear end was any indication.

3) And he, John Watson, wanted to get down on his knees and lick out his sleeping husband so badly his entire body ached with it.

But John paused. He thought about this thing he very much wanted. He wavered. He felt guilt.

And then John reminded himself that they've done this before. They've given each other permission to give each other pleasure in this way… _and_ to take it.

Well then, right to work.

With great, slow-moving care, John rolled himself gracefully from the sofa. In absolute silence and very cautiously he spread and then placed himself between Sherlock's succulent thighs.

And then, with a soft sigh and two gentle hands at his husband's hips, John spread Sherlock open—wet, wet he was so god damn _wet—_ and John bent low with a breathless hum, and John began to lick.

 _This thirteen thousand-word ode to rimming, fingering, and falling has now concluded (though it may have a sequel one day). Thank you for, uh,_ coming _along._


End file.
